


Les galipettes

by Niedergeschlagen



Series: Of Uranian Persuasion [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Erotic Poetry, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Ugly Grantaire, background Combeferre/Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 18:57:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13324440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niedergeschlagen/pseuds/Niedergeschlagen
Summary: Grantaire’s breath reeks of alcohol, but it isn’t an entirely unpleasant smell, the tanginess of wine and the sharp, clinical smell of liquor mix together in a hazy concoction of heated desire inside Marius. He watches as Grantaire lets his eyelids fall shut and leans into him to brush their lips together.(or, welcome to my ooc hour.)





	Les galipettes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DecayingLiberty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecayingLiberty/gifts).



Upon the discovery of Combeferre and Enjolras’s intimate relationship, the world of one Monsieur Courfeyrac was uprooted, severely shaken and then placed back in its original seat with a condescending pat on the back. For sure, he has always known that Combeferre is not the tight-lipped, cold-hearted academic people unfamiliar with his character often make him out to be, but this – _this_. This romance for the ages, this forbidden, amorous affair with Enjolras was not something he could ever have imagined Combeferre taking part in. With Enjolras, everyone knows he has never touched a woman, that much is visible from his outward appearance – he has the face of a virgin; modest yet virile, detached yet present. He came not as a surprise.

 

When Courfeyrac first saw them together in that new light of love, he opened a door that could never be shut again; he would for the rest of his life continue seeing the _plaisanteries_ of lovers exchanged between the two, in the amenable and giddy air of young hearts in love for the first time. Every touch is charged with intentions Courfeyrac can easily see through. Although he turns away from these careless declarations of affection, in factuality they make him yearn for his own chambers and Marius pressed against him.

 

Lust isn’t unfamiliar to Courfeyrac, but the surge of desire that sweeps through him, when he listens to Grantaire’s account of his dream of the Heidelberg Tun, is. This lures Courfeyrac’s attention from Grantaire’s story and when he returns to a state cognitive enough to listen again, Grantaire seems to have moved on from das Groβe Fass and onto other things. He laments the futility of life, Bossuet asks him to be quiet already.

 

Courfeyrac fists the fabric of his trousers. He thinks of Marius, who is home and hard at work, bent over the writing desk, juggling between French and English and German, carving out meagre allowance for himself. He thinks of Marius with his tufts of black hair tousled and his cheeks deliciously flushed. Then he immediately thinks of Grantaire with his gaunt face and crooked nose. He lets his eyes wander over to Grantaire, who is in the business of downing a bottle in one swift, ungentlemanly draw. The way his plump, wet lips wrap around the lip of the wine bottle and the way his throat labours fascinates Courfeyrac. He reprimands himself for such thoughts – he has Marius at home, a friend in the eyes of the world, a husband in his. Yet, when the Friends of the ABC go their separate ways, Courfeyrac sits down at the table where Grantaire remains alone with his bottles, propped against his hand in melancholic thought.

 

“How are you faring, old friend?” Courfeyrac asks. He aims for a conversational, yet sympathetic tone so as not to alarm his partner in conversation.

 

Grantaire, previously deep in thought, startles albeit of Courfeyrac’s attempts to approach him gently. His eyes are glassed over. “What might that mean, dear monsieur?”

 

The room has effectively emptied out, only the two of them remain, and still Courfeyrac lowers his voice and leans forwards in conspiratorial manner. “How does your heart weather now that Enjolras is having a liaison with Combeferre?”

 

“Ah, young naïve friend!” Grantaire bellows out, grandiose. “They have been performing _les galipettes_ for quite some time already. You are not the only watcher in this crusade, and most certainly not the keenest.”

 

Courfeyrac does not take offense in Grantaire’s harsh accusations. He understands the kind of duress he is under, the poor man. He instead, without much thinking, places his hand over Grantaire's where it lies on the table next to a cavalcade of bottles. Grantaire does not flinch away nor does he react in other ways, he merely keeps staring at a spot of dirt on the table somewhere between them.

 

Grantaire has bony knuckles and calloused palms, like someone who does a lot with his hands. Suddenly, Courfeyrac is reminded of the hobbies Grantaire manages to find time for, even with most of his schedule devoted to drinking. He had not remembered that Grantaire both dances and fences. His voice is hoarse when he asks: “Accompany me home?”

 

“Is Pontmercy not eagerly awaiting your return?”

 

As a means of response, Courfeyrac intertwines their fingers together, his soft and Grantaire’s those of a true bohemian.

 

“He will not mind.”

 

* * *

 

Marius hears the door of the apartment being opened with such strange care and reverence that he becomes immediately alerted by this. He knows the incomer to be Courfeyrac by the fall of his feet, but somebody else also trails in, careful not to make too much sound or or take up too much space.

 

There are but a small dining room, adjoined with a kitchenette rather than a full kitchen, a small but tidy study and the bedroom in the apartment. Marius sits at the desk in the study with his hands in his lap, waiting for Courfeyrac and the guest.

 

He cannot claim to be surprised to see Grantaire hard on Courfeyrac's heels. He did plant the seed of an idea in Courfeyrac’s mind weeks ago, and Courfeyrac is nothing if not predictable.

 

Was Marius not in love up to his ears with Courfeyrac, he may have scolded Courfeyrac for his heedless desires. He is secure in his attachment, despite the littlest wave of jealousy lapping at him, threatening to swell. He rises from his seat and regards their houseguest.

 

“Good evening, Grantaire,” Marius greets him. “What brings you here?”

 

“Pontmercy, how splendid to see your face. You have the face of a man spoilt much too soon by the sorrows of the vile world – ah, that unexplainable heaviness on the brow of him, who has already suffered – “

 

“Please, Grantaire, we are all friends here, are we not? You need not lecture us,” Courfeyrac reminds him.

 

“What friends are those, who do not lend an ear to a man, who has lost his hope to a malady, a malady who bears the name of life? Oh, well, I suppose you have sampled my grief and strife enough to know you do not wish to have more of it in your lives.”

 

Emboldened by a natural lull in the conversation, Marius takes a step forth and tentatively caresses Grantaire’s face. The unkempt feel of Grantaire’s unshaven face sparks a willingness inside him. He glances briefly at Courfeyrac before he leans in very close to Grantaire, waiting for him to bridge the distance between them. Grantaire’s breath reeks of alcohol, but it isn’t an entirely unpleasant smell, the tanginess of wine and the sharp, clinical smell of liquor mix together in a hazy concoction of heated desire inside Marius. He watches as Grantaire lets his eyelids fall shut and leans into him to brush their lips together. The marriage of their mouths lasts a while, and when they separate into two entities instead of one, Marius finds himself chasing after the warmth of Grantaire’s mouth.

 

“Perhaps,” he hears Courfeyrac begin, but his voice is thick and drowns out the rest of the words.

 

“Yes,” Marius agrees.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire with his unquenchable thirst, yet satiated for the first time in a long while, lies in a bundle of sheets and a tangle of flesh. On his left, Marius in deep slumber; on his right, Courfeyrac with one eye barely cracked open, but mouth quietly moving as if still talking to somebody. Grantaire shifts and the sensation of skin on skin, pliable and delectable, drives him to a soliloquy, a quotation of sorts – he remembers not neither cares to remember by whom: “O flesh and earthly pleasure, did they ever light the candles of high Heaven? O treasure, I am on the tenters as you stretch, and as you writhe, O creature Heavenly and blithe. As your limbs grow weary and your race is run, what wine might better taste than the desire on your lips as you come?”

 

There is crassness to his speech, but he is too well-spent and flirting with the freezing blade of sobriety to think of more floral verse.

 

“Be silent, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac mutters, now with both eyes closed. He sounds kindly. “Now we sleep. Tomorrow is another day for Homeric efforts.”

**Author's Note:**

> DecayingLiberty, this is for and because of you. Honestly, I had never even thought about this ship and the whole scene in 'My dearest, my dearest,' with Courfeyrac going "hmm, let's pity fuck" struck me out of nowhere, and then your comment made me go "hmm, they really should have sex" and now we're here. I mean, I made this far more romantic than it was intended as. 
> 
> Hashtag bless up.


End file.
